“Don’t be such a fool. Why do you think he did it?” The derision I’m used to from her is back in her voice. She pauses, presumably to wait for me to answer, but I’m struck speechless. For the first time since I made that call, those dark and negative thoughts I try my hardest to ignore are surfacing. I’ve wondered why he dropped everything to come to my rescue, but I didn’t ponder the question too long because I was afraid of the answer. To have my mother throw it in my face, asking me the question we both know I’m terrified of, wasn’t what I needed today. Ever since I was a child, she knew exactly what to say or do to hurt me in the worst possible way.
Before I can stop her, she continues to annihilate my heart. “He didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. People don’t do that, especially him. Hell, he probably has some hidden agenda to further his business or something.” Her snort physically hurts me, and I flinch, unable to shield myself from her words because deep down I wonder if she’s right. What does he get out helping me?
“Don’t fool yourself, sweetie, he isn’t going to suddenly love you. He hasn’t before, and he won’t now. It’s not like you’re needed with the new family around. He’s replaced us both.” Each word is like an arrow through my heart, aimed and shot with precision, piercing my skin before tearing through the organ that might sustain my body but is close to giving up the fight.
Unwanted tears fill my eyes at her hateful and bitter words. Having your worst fear thrown into your face by the one person who should protect and love you no matter what is soul destroying. And yet, despite knowing the only reason why she does this is because she gets some sick satisfaction out of hurting me, I can’t stop the words from invading and spreading like a disease. Leaving behind nothing but a wasteland of doubt and loneliness.
“Veronika—” I try to stop her, having a feeling she’s not done yet. I should have hung up the phone when I realized how angry she was. But when it’s the people you love most who hurt you over and over, you still hope there’s some good left in them despite everything. That suddenly, they’ll wake up and realize what they’re doing, the abuse they inflict, is wrong. Yet, they never do.
“Not that I can blame him. You were an awful child.” I press my eyes closed at her words, forcing the silent tears to run down my cheeks. A scream of agony forms in my throat, and I have to use everything left in me to prevent it from leaving, from making a sound. She would only pounce on the knowledge of how much her words are physically hurting me. “Always in his way, never leaving him to his work. So, demanding. If you would have just been less selfish, been more independent,” she laments, uncaring of the destruction she’s causing. “Who knows where we’d be now.”
I lie unmoving on the bed, knowing instinctively that if I move, I’ll fall apart. And I’ll be damned if I give her the one thing she really wants—the knowledge of how much her words are hurting me.
“Well, we can’t change the past. Just remember, he didn’t love you then, he doesn’t love you now. He’s getting something out of this. Don’t come crying to me once you realize what it is, and you find out he used you.”
Before I can say anything, not that I could have through the tears and pain clogging my vocal cords, I hear the beeping noise indicating she hung up.
I don’t move. Any strength I had left has evaporated, sucked away by the hatred my mother likes to shower me with.
Is she right? Why is he helping me?
Questions I’ve avoided so far are back, swirling through my consciousness, darkening everything they touch.
I need to get out of here, out of this room. I need to breathe.
Without conscious thought, I get off the bed and head for the door. I hurry along the hallway and down the stairs. I quietly put on my shoes, being careful not to alert anyone to my presence. I’m in a fog of pain, but I know if I encounter someone right now all the ugly inside of me will spill out, and I’ll reveal just how broken I am.
I don’t pay attention to where I’m going, my vision hazy while her words pound in my head, making me dizzy. Hurt I haven’t felt in seven years is spreading like wildfire through my body. I stumble down the path, slipping and sliding in the fresh snow that must have fallen while I was asleep until I make it to the barn door. My body instinctively knowing what, or who, I need. The only being who’d be able to make me feel better.
I fight with the door, my frozen fingers struggling to open the latch. Once I get it to work and stumble inside, I blindly make my way to Whisky’s stall, uncaring to turn on any of the lights. I don’t need to see to know where I’m going.
As soon as he hears me enter the barn, Whisky’s head pops out of the open window in the stall door. His snort is soft, and he kicks the wood paneling in front of him, clearly upset. I hurry toward him, ignoring Lucifer in his stall with his nose pressed against the iron bars.
Once I’m close to Whisky, his muzzle burrows into my neck, his breath fanning softly across my skin. For the first time since I woke up from my nap, I feel something settle inside of me. The current of hurt and disappointment ebbs, its power pulling me in various
